


free real estate in undust city

by yrelec



Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (work in very sporadic process), Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Blind Character, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Getting Together, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, Karen Page is missing, Laura is clint's sister, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), daredevil kicks ass, wivsp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21788440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yrelec/pseuds/yrelec
Summary: Matthew Murdock rematerializes in Clint Barton's apartment on an early Friday morning. (during the snap, hawkeye had moved- he needed a home base, see, a place he could keep all of his gear, a place he could crash- close enough to the Avengers if the need arose, but far enough away from the farm that he didn’t have to relive his sister’s death over and over and over in his mind.) To say all parties involved are confused is an understatement.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Matt Murdock, Clint Barton/Matt Murdock, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Marci Stahl
Comments: 43
Kudos: 189





	1. Surprise! It's been a while!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so here I am contributing. We need more shit in this tag so here is some.  
> Today’s mood: Dela, Johnny Clegg

[CHAPTER 1]

He had moved in not even a month after the snap. There was just a little something about seeing all of your closest living relatives crumble into nothing that made you not want to live in the location of their death. He had begun looking for housing immediately, of course. So help him, God, he was going to kill the individual responsible for the disappearance of his sister if it was the last thing he did, so he snatched up the very first listing, paid, dropped his shit off, and had been off, gallivanting across the world and returning only to check in on the farm and to recollect. 

The apartment had suited his needs well, of course. He had no idea who had lived there - some lonely fuck, maybe - but he did know that they, too, had been vaporized by the Snap. The apartment probably hated the sterile feeling that came with being owned by Clint Barton, of course. It was only a shell of what it surely must have been: warehouse decor and square paneled windows and a single couch and bed. The only room, really, that felt any life was the kitchen, where his barstools and countertops were perpetually greasy and littered with junk and life. The billboard that blared down at him, posting its adds for half-filled, half-staffed airlines didn’t bother him in the least: he only used the pad to crash and restock and to occasionally fix his broken gear. 

Located in Hell’s Kitchen, it was close enough to the Avengers that he could manage them from afar, and far enough from the farm that he didn’t have to submit to the hauntings that already reverberated around his fragile mind every night. He was occupied, now more than ever, with his vigilante work, attempting to find someone, anyone, to whom he could pin the blame. He needed an outlet for this violent rage, and if mowing mafias and crime syndicates down like grass was that outlet then who was he to stop himself?

This was how Natasha found him: alone, bitter, callous. She shuffled him under her wing and paraded him in front of the rest of the Avengers and suddenly there was a light to Clint’s word, an optimism that hadn’t been there before. He still had his teammates, and they were going to do anything to bring Laura back.

He returned to his apartment then, with Natasha. She commented on the roof access and the built-in sliding frame to the bedroom, and he suited up in preparation for the earthshaking mission that was to come. He paid the billboard, which flashed a brilliant green through the windows, no attention.

How was he supposed to know, then, that she wasn’t going to return? How could he have predicted the unforeseeable events that were to come? How could he have known that they were to arrive on Vormir together, but that he would be the only one back?

That moment, on the cliff, when they had both come to the realization that one of them had to die: that had been worse than any emotion he had ever felt in his life. He had known immediately that it would have to be him to die. How many people had he killed? How many people had he loved? If they were to succeed he would have nothing to live for, but Natasha? Natasha had everything. She was the one on the path to redemption, she was the one who had conquered her past and was just finally moving on. Who cared if she had no family waiting for her? The Avengers were her family. Fury, all of the agents, anyone whom she chose. Hawkeye had no one. No one but her. 

Her life had so much more value, so much more potential, than his, and he couldn’t help but feel anger at the rest of the Avengers for forcing her into this situation.

She was the strongest person he knew. Of course she was going to win.

When he opened his eyes, kneeling in the pool at the very edge of the universe, he couldn’t help but feel that nothing could have been worth this. He had screamed, that day, cried for the first time since Laura’s death, and when the perpetually eclipsed sun sank down beneath the horizon of the barren planet, he had risen from where he had lain in shock and had brought the news to the rest of the Avengers. The guilt he had felt at that moment had been soul-crushing. How could he find peace within himself when he had been the one the return alive? How could he forgive himself for the years wasted, while he, the self-absorbed lunatic, had refused to even show up at the compound?

He still felt fragile, as if he were made of toothpicks.

The battle had come close to breaking him, of course. The phone call from Laura, oh God, that made up for every second spent in hatred, if only for the fact that he got to hear her voice again! It had abruptly ended and suddenly he was going hand to hand with aliens who had tried to consume his planet and were now planning on doing it again. He would have quit, then and there. He would have quit, would have given in to the brewing self-hatred and guilt, folded into the excuse to let himself go, but he couldn't. Natasha had given her life for him, given her life for all of them, and though her death shouldn’t have ever have been necessary, he couldn’t let it go to waste. She had died for him and like hell was he going to throw her gift away. He couldn’t let the other side win, couldn’t let them take Laura just hours after she had been reborn, and so he fought.

He fought and he fought and he fought and he almost got killed and holy shit was that woman powerful (thank god she’s on our side!) and he fought and he fought until Thanos was dead. And then, because the world didn’t hate him enough, it took Tony with it too, and suddenly he was mourning the loss of his leader and his friend.

The funeral was scheduled for Tuesday, because Stark was such an ass he forced all of them to take time off from their day jobs just to come and see him, even in death. Because seeing the great Tony Stark was so much of a privilege it used up your vacation days.

Not that Clint had a day job.

He spent the days leading up to it at the farm, with Laura. He was so glad to have her back, to hold her in his arms and to listen to her marvel at the brand new world that surrounded her. She had been the older sibling, but now he had her beat. They spent the days just letting things be: Clint played catch with Lila and told stories to Cooper and raced blindly through the fields with Nathaniel because he was healing and he loved them. Clint had eaten homemade food for the first time in five years. His heart had been light, unburdened with the desire for vengeance for the first time in much too long.

And when Tuesday came around, they all dressed up in their finest, darkest clothes and had all piled into the car and it was with desolate hearts that they all lined up by the lake and wished the world’s hero one last farewell. And it was on the very next day that they all redonned their finest, darkest clothes and all piled into the car and paid their respects to Natasha Romanov because unlike Tony Stark, she was not a billionaire and couldn’t get all of her arrangements at such short notice. The ceremony was beautiful.

Clint left that day with a heart a little lighter and a melancholy look upon his face.

It wasn’t until Thursday that Clint returned to his apartment.

He might as well live there, now. He could probably sell it for great returns: after all, what could possibly be a better non-price determinant of demand than the miraculous, spontaneous appearance of 4 billion people in need of housing? But had Clint ever had common sense? No. His apartment, which had felt rather neglected during its ownership, was about to undergo a drastic change in managerial style. Thursday was marked by a purge of junk food from the kitchen and the carting of boxes of personal belongings from his room at Laura’s house. He had three house plants, now, and sheets on his bed that were more than just a baseball game blanket. Even though most of his stuff remained in cardboard moving boxes, Clint figured he would have all the time in the world to unpack; Clint didn’t have a day job, after all.

It was on Friday that Matt Murdock materialized in his apartment. It was lunchtime: Clint was eating a store-bought salad on his couch, amidst a jungle of cluttered objects, when the empty space between the modern wooden bar and the stainless steel refrigerator became a lot less empty. Clint, to be honest, was embarrassed by how slowly he reacted. The man had materialized, built up from non-existent particles floating in the air, and had immediately collapsed against the counter, knocking one of Clint’s glasses to the floor and causing it to shatter. Clint, tired from the start of the day and the emotional rollercoaster of the past week, merely halted the fork in his hand and stared.

The man froze. He was handsome, hair messy and unkempt and his shoulders sculpted quite finely for a man who previously hadn’t existed in this plane of being. He had been in the midst of dressing up: he had on some fancy slacks, nicer pants than Clint had ever owned, and a half-buttoned dress shirt. The lack of furniture in the apartment meant that Clint had a clear view. His neo-modern watch shone brighter than Clint’s future and Clint couldn’t help but admire the man. The soft, dark shadow around his round jawline seemed to leap out at the vigilante, and Clint couldn’t do much more than gape. 

The man’s shoulders heaved in laborious breaths: he felt around the counter confused, before coming into contact with another of the glasses. He froze, his hand fondling it, pensive, before snatching his hand back to his chest and staring straight at Clint. The movement was sudden and freakish. He had just whipped around, perfectly stopping and staring deep into Clint’s eyes, unblinkingly. There was something off about those eyes, something unhinged and unfocused as if the man already knew all of Clint Barton’s greatest secrets. 

“Why are you in my apartment?” said the man, and by God did he speak clearly. For once, Clint wasn’t struggling to decipher the words of another member of a group: this man’s speech was clear as day.

“Uh-” wow, great introduction, “I live here?”

The man continued to stare, unblinkingly. “Get out of my house,” he stated, calm, collected, in a voice that sent chills down Clint’s spine.

“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a, uh, misunderstanding?” Clint was proud of how crisp his voice sounded to his own ears- the Stark issues hearing-aids were some of the best hearing options he’d ever used, and he could hear even the slightest shifts in tone. Once he even heard the knees of his neighbor crack when they both squatted down in the hallway to try and retrieve the man’s key. “I live here? Now? Because it looks like you got snapped and, uh, well, if that’s the case, uh, I’m sorry? But it’s been five years.”

The man looked confused.

“Here, uh, what’s the last thing you, you know, you remember?”

The man picked up the glass he had made contact with earlier, investigating it with his hands. He blinked once, and Clint was really starting to get freaked out. “Get out of my house before I call the police.”

“Wait! No, please, believe me. Check the date- it’s been five, uh, five years and everyone else moved on? Aw, please don’t kick me out of this apartment, I’m trying to settle in!” 

“Come up with a better lie next time. I’m giving you until the count of five.” The man raised the glass as if to throw it, and Clint flinched back instinctively.

“What if I have proof!”

Clint was desperate, not wanting an upheaval to his life at such a crucial moment. He was still grieving! Heartless bastards, wandering into your house and trying to remove you by force. The man, his sharp gaze unyielding, had stopped counting. Clint wondered how he was able to hold eye contact for so long: sure, his eyes were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, like citrine on a crisp fall day, but that only made the stranger more unnerving.

The man gestured, though the action seemed vague and meaningless. He frowned, fine fissures fracturing the clean slated face that belonged to the misplaced man. His voice was hoarse and silken when he spoke:

“Would you turn on the news?”

Clint nodded immediately, whipping around to scan the cluttered living room for a television and remote. There it was, tucked next to the door and the window, dead, unplugged.

“Hang on, I’m moving, so everything’s everywhere and it’s unplugged. It’ll be a second.”

He got up from the couch, setting down his salad on the armrest where it balanced delicately. The wires were all tangled. Clint felt stressed: of course the guy wanted to see the news, it was proof, but why did he have to watch so intently? This was too much pressure. The wires were a mess, and Clint didn’t know if he could concentrate under the man’s gaze. He glanced up; the man had been speaking but he hadn’t been paying attention. Fucking hell.

“Ugh, yeah,” he said, hoping that that was enough of an answer to whatever the man had said. The man looked confused, head tilted. He shook his head and then bent down, carefully, raking his fingers gently over the floor. His fingers brushed the glass shards of the cup he had shattered up arriving and he began to sift through them, picking each one up. He stared off into the distance: it looked like he was used to this action, given his complete lack of visual interest. It still worried Clint though.

“Careful, don’t cut yourself.” 

“I’ll be fine.” He was so beautiful. Clint needed to know his name- who cared if they didn’t know each other, they were just a few feet away from each other- and he needed to know so much more about the man too. What was his favorite color? What kept him up in the last dark dredges of the night, making him reconsider the very purpose behind his presence here on this oblate spheroid of a planet? Did he have a girlfriend? It was important that all of this was answered in Clint’s raging mind, or Clint thought he might burst open for want. Was this what people had felt like before encyclopedias were invented?

At least now that the man seemed to be gazing out into the streets of New York instead of deep into Clint’s own tumultuous past Clint could finally relax. He still felt tense, but no longer higher strung. The cords unraveled themselves methodically behind the television screen. The television murmured alive. Was it a news channel? It looked like National Geographic. The remote was… missing, and Clint suspected that it wouldn’t have batteries inside it, anyways, so Clint changed the channel like his grandparents and parents didn’t, since they had been occupied with buying other things. The first news channel he came across, he stopped, leaning in to focus on the murmur of the television’s voice.

He was startled by a tap to his shoulder, and when he turned, the stranger spoke.

“What channel is this?” His voice was so fragile. He placed all ot the glass shards on a towel next to the kitchen sink and had stood back up, out of view of the television screen. His head was titled, confusion on his features.

“Uh…” There, at the top: “Fox News?”

“That isn’t Brian Kilmeade, he normally does the morning show-” How did he know their names? Clint had watched the news maybe three times during the Blip, so he definitely didn’t know the replacements’ names, either.

“That guy got… dusted… back in 2018. They’ve hired this woman in his place and she’s a little better, I think. Maybe, uh, a little clearer, more held back. Don’t you want to move around to see the date in the corner and stuff? I don’t think you can see where you are standing.”

The “I’m fine here” Clint received was incredibly terse, and quite stunned. Clint felt as if he had missed the joke and had only heard the punchline, but the guy had been so conscientious to make sure Clint was aware he was speaking before saying anything that it seemed unlikely. He was so! Polite! The way he made sure Clint missed none of the conversation after just the one trip up! It wasn’t as if Clint had been hiding his hearing aids, but still! 

A Godsend. A man born from the heavens.

They both leaned closer to catch was the news anchor was saying.

“-the end of the Blip really was surprisin’ for many people, wasn’t it, Shanice. We had reporters callin’ in who’s voices we hadn’t heard in five years, since the Decimation-”

The stranger stiffened.

“-just a few days ago my sweet neighbor’s little baby boy was returned to her by the police. He had rematerialized at the park they had been in at the time and he had gone to the authorities-”

“Check another news source.” The man’s voice had been so weak that time that even Stark’s high tech aids could barely pick it up. He mumbled about perspectives and citations, turning away to pace through the slim passage of the kitchen. Clint really hoped he wouldn’t do that: Even with socks on, the man could still step on residue glass. He had yet to look down to make sure he had picked up every last shard. 

“Like what?”

“CNN. Try CNN.”

The channel was flipped, and the whining voice came out from the screen. A flashy transition slide with CNN splashed brazenly across in splashed across the screen, sliding away to reveal a dark man sitting behind his news anchor desk. Clint had no idea who the man was either.

“‘-just in: with the return of all of the people blipped Saturday came the arrival of prominent world leaders all around the globe. This comes with the inevitable debate: do politicians elected pre-blip still hold their positions? Polls are stating negative: given new party members were elected immediately post-blip and the election cycle has happened once since then, 74% of Americans believe that these returned politicians no longer hold to right to remain in office. We interviewed members of a rally at Washington early this morning, and here are some of their responses: ‘  
“‘Nah I’m not saying that he doesn’t deserve tah finish ‘is term, Ah mean, he ran an’ everythin’, you know? But you know? If we’re countin’ time blipped as part of ‘is term, as like, kinda, a maternity leave, well ‘e’s already done nine years, you know? “E blipped in April, and midterms were in November. ‘E’d almost done his 4 years already!’”

The stranger stiffened, again 

“Another news source. Impartial, this time. International. The BBC?”

Clint frowned, pity preventing him from feeling any frustration at the guy. Of course he was in denial! That’s five years of his life past by. The confusion must be unbridled: he had no idea what was going on!

“What’s next, you want me to try the Onion?” he asked.

That was a very poorly timed joke.

He flipped through the channels quickly. Did he even have the BBC? He didn’t think so. What kind of person watches international news? While in the United States? Clint just watched whatever was on, really, so he didn’t have any go-to preferences.

“Sorry, man, I don’t own the BBC channel? It’s not, uh, but I do have, it looks like? Um, it looks I have le Figaro, Aljazeera, and, well, this is just five stations of Mexican news that are just the same news?”

They flipped through all of them, listening to fragments. Clint didn’t speak French or Spanish so only Aljazeera, which was in English, made any sense to him, but all of them seemed to stress out the man more. All were preaching the Blip, discussing the repercussions of an additional four billion people on the globe, the upsets, the conflicts, the heartfelt reunions. Everyone had lost someone or knew someone that had lost someone, so the past 5 years had become one of the most defining moments in history.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the man said, “Five years ago, I, along with half of the fucking planet, disappeared into thin air.”

“Actually, half of the universe. Supposedly.” Clint was being rather pedantic, but he liked to jump on chances to provide information. Call it a habit: Tony made fun of members who said nothing, and Clint was tired of it. “And everyone more like disintegrated. The atmosphere was rancid for months. Sorry.”

“Disintegrated.” The man’s look might have been incredulous, if not for the fact that his sightlines were completely off. This was probably rude. Was Hawkeye going to comment on it? No.

“So some guy,” he says, confused.

“Thanos. He’s an alien. Like a, uh, evil alien dictator.”

“Thanos, he uses magic to kill everyone. Why?” 

“Because he thinks that the universe is overpopulated and wants to save everyone.”

“How would that even work? If he killed all life there wouldn’t be any difference. It would be overpopulation on a smaller scale. Did this blip,” He says the word blip as if he is allergic to the taste. “Kill only humans?”

“No. Animals, really any living thing, um, cats, dogs, aliens.”

“Then wouldn’t resources halve as well? Or where plants spared?” The man was raising his voice. He slumped onto the couch, frustrated.

“No?”

“Of fucking course. Because magic alien dictators can pick and choose. How would that even work?”

Clint is stumped. This stranger, this absolute rando in his apartment is asking the real questions. It’s too bad Fury is on vacation; he would know. Maybe Bruce could figure it out. Clint doesn’t believe asking would be the right choice, though.

“Regardless, it was not well thought through,” the man goes on, saving Clint from guessing. “But I’m am off track. Thanos kills everyone - disintegrates them - and now the Avengers brought everyone back. How?”

“Well, the Avengers used the same magic...” 

“You know what? I’m not even going to ask.”

Clint quieted, nodded. The man seemed off. He was holding himself together remarkably well for someone in shambles. He wasn’t even fully dressed: his tie was untied, his cufflinks (yes, this was a well put together man!) were missing, and his socks flexed on the cold floor. He still hadn’t glanced at the television, and for the first time, Clint wondered whether there was actually a reason behind it beyond the coarse environment they had both stepped into. Was there something wrong with them?

“Are you blind?” Damn. That was straightforward. Chill, Hawkeye.

“Yes.” The man was curt, stiff.

“Oh. I’m deaf.” 

The stranger just nodded, as if that was confirming something he already knew. Clint thought it quite ironic how without his hearing aids, it would only take a mute man to complete the ‘evil’ trifecta. 

“Given that you are technically homeless, well, do you have a place to stay?” Again. Tactless.

The man winced. He rubbed his hands together nervously and stood up, towering over were Hawkeye remained crouched in front of the tv. “Yes. I do. I can sort myself out.”

“I was going to offer that you stay here… are you sure that you’ll be fine?” Clint stood up.

“Yes. I am sorry for disturbing you.” He started making his way for the door, skirting the coffee table graceful. It was fairly impressive how smoothly he moved.

“No! No- no problem. It’s fine! Are you sure? Where will you stay?”

He was going to stay with his associate, apparently. No problem at all, except:

“You need shoes!” Clint called after the stranger in the hallway.

He stopped. 

“You can borrow one of mine! If you need to- obviously you do- I think I have some sandals that might fit you? They’re by the wall.” The man nodded, grabbed them, and slid them on. He looked a little askew, with his suit. 

“Thank you for your… hospitality, Mr,” he trailed off, questioningly. 

“Clint. Clint Barton.”

“Mr. Barton. My apologies again for the inconvenience. I will try to return these to you at my closest convenience.” He said. With that, he opened the door and left. Clint stared gapingly at the hallway. What? He rushed to the door and looked out, but the man was already gone. Was that really his goodbye? Was he going to be okay? He didn't know much about blind people, but he figured they needed at least a walking stick to get around; here he was, strolling out into a city who's layout had almost completely changed, without any kind of external aid.

He was tempted to run after him. He also didn't want to intrude. He settled for the middle, gaping numbly in the corridor at the empty space before him, barely processing the meeting that had just occurred. It took him a few minutes to peel himself away, and even longer to return to his salad. Clint figured that was going to be the last he ever saw of the beautiful stranger. This was New York, after all. 

It wasn’t.

.


	2. He'll crash here, if that's okay?

[CHAPTER 2]

Clint barely had to wait three hours for the knock to resonate on his front door. He didn’t hear the knock, but the newly installed doorbell's earsplitting chime bleeding into the air startled him into dropping his alarm clock.

He caught it in midair.

He’s Hawkeye, after all.

In the three hours since the man had left, Clint had been more productive than he could ever recall being, and Clint wasn’t so sure that he could call that an exaggeration. He had completely finished moving into the kitchen, and his bedroom and closets were almost done: he was down to one last box. Said box was emptier by the minute: the alarm clock that had sat on top lay cradled in his hands, and some old forgotten tech he had abandoned at Laura’s was all he had left. His home felt pristine, fresh. His tactical gear had disappeared into his closets and under his bed (and yes, there were arrows in the freezer and in the cupboards and under the bathroom sink) and he could feasibly invite a girlfriend home if he wanted to. Shame free, even. 

...And if any handsome blind men just happened to return, there would be nothing on the floor or in the way for them to trip over. His living space was peril free.

Clint set down his alarm clock on the bedside table, smoothed his bedspread like an adult, and went to answer the door. He checked the peephole apprehensively, shell-shocked, exalting: was he a prophet? Yes. There he was, head tilted curiously to the side, cheeks pink. Clint felt his heart stutter. With a cheek splitting grin, he flung open the door as wide as he had just flung open his chest.

“A man of your word, I see!” He exclaimed, referring obviously to the sandals but never tearing his eyes from the man’s bashful face. He couldn’t believe his luck! It was about time the universe delivered its share of roses.

“Thank you for letting me borrow your sandals.” The man replied, holding them up and away from his chest where they had been clutched.

“You realize I didn’t need a same-day return? I didn’t expect you to even return them, period.” Clint joked. “I see you’ve got some new kicks.”

Sneakers, cheap, colors as dull as Ohio. They looked strange paired with his dress slacks, but hardly any stranger than the sandals from earlier. “I like them,” he said.

“I cashed in a debt with Josie. Are they that bad?”

“No. They’re plain. A bit boring, if you uh, ask me. Not that that's bad, of course! Just– they don't clash.”

The stranger shuffled. He seemed off-kilter, still. Clint couldn’t quite figure out if this was new. He was good at reading people, and this man was as nervous as a child on exam day. His hands were still holding out the sandals as if not willing to grope around and find Clint’s outstretched hand, and his mouth was pulled tight. Clint slowly removed the sandals from his hands, concerned.

“I’m Matthew M. Murdock, attorney. I apologize for not introducing myself properly when we saw each other last.” He explained.

“No problem.” Clint seemed to be a whole lot less stressed about this, surprisingly. “Are you here for anything else?”

Mr. Murdock paused. He opened his mouth. Closed it. He brought his hands closer to his chest and pressed them together, as if in prayer. He suddenly looked nervous in a way that had them both shivering despite the pre-June heat.

“I don’t have anywhere to go. I’m really sorry, but this was the only place I knew to come. I realize that it is not within my rights to ask you if I can stay, given that we are barely acquaintances, but I legally don’t exist at the moment, so I can’t rent a room or go to a hotel.” It was no wonder that he seemed out of his mind with worry. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Clint Barton couldn’t help but sidetrack to his racing heart. He felt himself redden as if in a mirror image. 

“I- yes, yes, my door is always open. You can stay here for as long- as long as you like.” He stammered. No way was he going to look this gift horse in the mouth. 

“Really?” Mr. Murdock looked surprised.

“Yes. You need a home, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to bother you truthfully. I wouldn’t be asking if-”

“It’s no trouble at all. Really!”

“Are you sure? It’s a small space. You’re in the middle of moving in-”

Clint had to take a moment to think that over. He didn’t have a guest room, but he did have an air mattress.

“I have an air mattress if that ‘s okay with you. I finished unpacking an hour ago,” he replied.

“Thank you. Normally I’d get a hotel room, but circumstances aren’t exactly normal,” Mr. Murdock made a face, “so here’s to relying on the generosity of strangers.”

Clint hadn’t known the man for longer than a few minutes, and yet he could tell that the man’s personality was dulled, subdued. He wanted to brighten the world for this man. He would probably drink oceans for this man. No one had ever told Clint he fell in love too slowly.

Realizing that they were still standing at the threshold of the house, he decided to invite Mr. Murdock in. He was functional, in that way. A full-blown adult. He even made a glass of wine for them both. Sure, the wine was only worth $5, and sure, Clint purchased said wine at the drugstore this morning, but it’s a start. 

He pulled the air mattress out of the closet’s top shelf with not nearly enough ease considering his circus career and inflated it in the living room behind the couch. He didn’t have sheets, so he borrowed some from next door; Mr. Murdock seemed pleased to hear that Mrs. Ramiro was still kicking, though he still maintained that he couldn’t impose on her. Clint pretended not to notice how Mr. Murdock flinched at the start of the inflation cycle and the hum of the fan and certainly didn’t comment on the fact that Mr. Murdock took one sip on the wine, set it down, and had yet to return to it. It was no doubt some sort of mildly enhanced sense like Clint’s eyesight. As a superhero, Clint Barton was an avid supporter of privacy, so he didn’t pry. 

Matthew Murdock looked as if he were barely holding it together throughout the process. His breathing was carefully measured and his hands remained clenched together. He sat on the couch, lost, and hopeless look on his face masked thinly by a polite smile and slanted Smalltalk.

“This used to be your couch then, huh,” remarked Clint, wondering whether it was weird to suddenly feel new objects in your living space after a period as brief as a minute nap.

“I, yeah. It’s strange that the landlord didn’t pawn it off. I must have picked it in the wrong color,” Mr. Murdock said. It’s only the outline of a joke, but it’s there.

“Hey! This has been my couch for the last five years and you will not insinuate its ugliness!”

Clint received a genuine smile out of that. He thinks that success is truly felt during sacred moments like these, in the brief echoes of paper-thin memory.

When the smile turned somber, Hawkeye sat close on the couch. The words that came next, he feared, would not be so pleasant. They would be soft-spoken and grave and Clint, like an imbecile, would have to ask Mr. Murdock to repeat them because his hearing aids won’t have caught their misery.

“One of the reasons I’m here,” Mr. Murdock said, consciously loud enough that there is no strain on Clint’s part, “is that my firm is closed. I am not sure whether or not my associates were, uh, ‘snapped’ as well, but I know that neither of them is living in their apartments anymore. I was wondering if you could help me find out what happened to them.”

“How?”

“I need the internet. All public libraries are closed until further notice, and I left my phone charging when the Snap occurred, so it didn’t carry on with me.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Clint’s laptop wasn’t charged, and the painstaking minutes spent waiting droned out for an eternity. Clint could feel the apprehension in the air.

“It’s on,” Mr. Murdock said, and when Clint was concerned as to how this was apparent, he explained that the fans clicked into gear. Clint didn’t even know that was something you could hear. 

Google was pulled up, and ‘Franklin Nelson’ was typed into the search bar. Neither were sure if it came as a relief that he appeared right away in the results. There was a private law firm, a few news articles, a link to a Facebook and Twitter account. It looked like this man had made a name for himself during the snap. Clint read this all out to the man’s past associate. Murdock smiled, elated at his partner’s success. 

“I’m glad he’s made a name for himself,” he said. “What about his attorneys?”

The website was clicked. After only a few seconds of website maneuvers, the list of attorney’s spilled down from the screen. Marci Stahl, Edward Womac, and Ximena Xu all worked at the firm. At the news, Murdock asked him to read it again. 

“Ximena is married?” He muttered under his breath. “Why Womac? We hated him in law school.”

Clint said nothing, only scrolled down to the contact information. A phone number blinked assuredly up at him, in line and at attention next to the email and address.

“I have the office’s phone number here. Do you want me to call him?”

“No, no let’s go there. I’m not about to contact him so insensitively after five years.” 

With that, they went. It was strange walking down the street. Murdock had grabbed his wrist forcefully when they left the building and had wrapped it around his arm. He was tense, and it was apparent he was uncomfortable. They were in close proximity and Clint reveled in the man’s warmth. It made sense that this arrangement was taken. The city had changed in the years since his disappearance, and he needed someone to guide him.

As a budgeting measure, due to fewer cars, most traffic lights were no longer functional. The skyline had transformed. Quite a few new buildings had been built, and quite a few buildings had been left to rot and had fallen. Central Park, though nowhere near their current location, had reclaimed parts of the city in its ineffable advance. Tourists were few and far between. Airline companies couldn’t cut it, and flights were through the roof expensive.

Most importantly: Matt had no idea where they were going.

He helped Matt down the street and around the corner to the subway station and walked him down the stairs. He called out obstacles and shifts in terrain like a referee would signal for foul play. He hoped he wasn’t overstepping: was he helping too much? The man had gallivanted across the city for hours: did he really need an unemployed grunt of a man to lead him around? Matt never corrected him, nor commented on his aid, so he figured it was okay. They maneuvered to the the subway station just fine. There weren't any hiccups or crowds.

The subway ride, however, was hectic.

Clint figured that all of the people that had been blipped now crowded the subway more than before. With the lines running only half as many trains since the snap and the sudden influx of tired New Yorkers, the pair were crammed against the side of the car, pressed close enough together that they were connected at the hip. The background noise overwhelmed his hearing aids like static. Clint wondered if Matthew Murdock was gay. When they arrived, five stations out, they poured out of the car like a liquid and pressed tight into the turnstile and stumbled up the stairs. The elevators we few and far between, but Clint was a superhero. Surprisingly, Matt barely broke a sweat either. When they burst onto the street, the air was fresh and crisp.

The office was presumptuous, to say the least. Clint assumed most lawyers were presumptuous - the lawyers at Stark Tower definitely were - so it seemed in character. They stood on the sidewalk at the foot of the building for a moment, taking it all in. Matt made him describe the building.

“It’s reddish, I guess. It’s made of bricks and is, uh, 7 stories tall, and the doorway is arched. I’m sorry, I’m not very good at describing things. The firm is on the third floor, I believe? They have a bronze placard here.” He didn’t know what to say. How do you describe a site to someone who isn’t another superhero? How do you properly characterize in civilian terms what you would normally scrutinize for points of entry and suspicion?

The door squealed when it was opened. In the elevator, jazz was playing. An uptight secretary answered them in the front hall in monochromatic tones. She glanced up at them with a smile that faded as she profiled them. In her eyes, a shabby, short and unshaven blonde in a hoodie and a blind man in a suit hardly warranted a cheerful greeting. They were a prominent law firm. They could afford to pick and choose clientele.

“Welcome to Nelson & Stahl Law Firm. How may we be of help,” she drawled, through pursed lips. 

Clint glance over her gray suit and gray personality and her hands clasped tightly on the desk in front of her. It registered that he didn’t particularly think she was the best option for the face of a business, but then again, with the demand for labor, he couldn’t be the one to judge. It’s not like the Avengers were great at PR either: Christ, they had decimated most of upstate New York just a week ago. Everyone with weekend plans to Niagara Falls probably despised the superhuman team more than they despised their tax collectors.

If Clint Barton had a dime for every time the general public had been concerned with the existence of an elite government organization comprised of superheroes? Sure, he wouldn’t be rich, but with the current rate of interest the banks currently were putting out it would grow exponentially. Even without a snazzy investment scheme, he could probably afford a coke from the 7 eleven down the block. Before the snap, even. That was more than most idiom users could say.

Matt shifted forwards, body tense. It took Clint’s entire spy operative training to discern his trembling nerves. His lips were pressed together, his head tilted to the side, and, almost imperceptibly, he leaned away from Clint.

“I am here to see Franklin Nelson,” he said. 

“Do you have an appointment or are you here as a prospective client?” Her air was aloof and pedantic. Matt bristled.

“I’m here as a friend.” 

“Mr. Nelson is currently working at the moment. You may come back when work hours are over. As you can see on the door, sir, he will be preoccupied until 6:00.”

What a bitch.

Clint was about to open his mouth - no doubt to say something incredibly inappropriate in front of a lawyer and a woman who was only doing her job, something that would get him banned from the building, at the very least - when a man with a round face and hair that fell past his ears strode from his office. His stopped. His jaw dropped. His eyes went wide. He took one step forward, then two, barely glancing over at Clint, eyes roaming over Mr. Murdock incredulously.

“Matt?” His voice was small, uncharacteristic of a full-grown man.

“Foggy?” Mr. Murdock turned in his associate’s direction, a small smile gracing his face.

“Matt? Is that really you?” Foggy asked. His voice quivered. He was close enough now to touch the lawyer; he held up his hand, placing it lightly upon the man’s shoulder. Mr. Nelson had wonderful eyes, Clint noticed. They shone bright and happy and carried a sense of calm and childlike elation to them, and Clint pained at seeing them glisten with tears.

“I can’t believe-”

“I’m back, Foggy,” Murdock said gently.

This seemed to be the trigger for Nelson’s relief. He lifted his friend into a hug, tears spilled out into the dry air.

“Thank God,” he said, and they seemed to fall back into their friendship where they belonged. 

He was an intruder upon the moment, and yet Franklin Nelson was the type of person to let everyone in the room belong. The man, glowing in happiness and clinging on to his friend of dearest life, looked up at Clint and sized him up, before granting him an accepting nod that meant everything. _Thank you for bringing Matt to me,_ it said. _Thank you for making sure he arrived safely. Thank you, thank you, thank you._

Foggy pulled Matthew into the office from whence he came. Clint loitered by the secretary’s desk, glancing at the open door. Was he supposed to go in? He smiled awkwardly at the woman. She glanced at him, briefly, before shaking her head and returning to her computer and typing away. Each tap of the keyboard reverberated surprisingly loudly around the room; that had been another sound to surprise Hawkeye when he received Stark’s specialty hearing aids. Stark industry computers were mainly touchscreen, so he had assumed that computers now made no sound at all.

After a minute, Mr. Nelson appeared at the doorway. 

“You must come in as well! I don’t bite!” He exclaimed. “Any friend of Matt’s is a friend of mine. Please. Come on in.”

He held the door open expectantly. He was one of the friendliest persons Clint had ever met and ever would meet, even with his nostalgia released across his portly face and his cheeks damp with tears. If Clint hadn’t been a spy with a supposedly strict “no friends” policy, he would have strolled in with an open heart. As it is, it took most of his espionage training for him to refrain from saying yes.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Nelson, sir, but I think you might prefer to spend this time with your friend,” he replied. 

The lawyer only smiled. He shut the door behind him, leaving the vigilante alone with the secretary.

“So, you come here often?” He asked. He leaned on the desk, voice coy and coquettish.

“Please wait in the seating area provided,” the woman said.

That would have been the end of it had the seats not been positioned in the best manner to look through Franklin Nelson’s window. Clint might have left had he not yet had the chance to say goodbye, leaving him with no choice but to wait. And with no other means of entertainment, Clint couldn’t help but peek straight through the blinds at the two men. It wasn’t his fault that the blinds left just enough space that he could see their mouths moving. The Avenger wasn’t about to not violate their privacy, of course. He was a reconnaissance god for a reason.

“-Realizing you were gone was one of the worst moments of my life, Matt,” Clint read. “I had been so worried that I would lose you to Fisk that I couldn’t imagine you dying any other way. It seems that I needn’t have worried, right? Forget druglords and the sociopaths and the Japanese mafia- only the destruction of half the universe could take you down.”

Clint had a difficult time making sense of everything he had read. Was he following clearly? Probably not. Mr. Murdock had begun to speak, the back of his head presented to the doorway, barring Clint from reading half of the conversation (and, to be honest, the half he most wanted to hear. Mr. Neslon seemed like a jovial man, kind and hearty and a seeker of true justice, but Murdock? Murdock was something else; beautiful, serene.). Clint laughed at the irony of the conversation. He had been worried for Kate and Laura much as Foggy had been for his friend, and yet they were both lost in ways he couldn’t possibly have predicted.

“-actually arrived at the office, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I assumed that you would both still show up. All of these people were mourning around me as their lives fell apart, and here I was walking all the way to work on the off-hand chance that you would both turn up late due to rush hour traffic. I waited for hours at my desk before mustering up the courage to check on your apartments. It wasn’t pretty.”

Mr. Murdock spoke again.

“Yes. You didn’t know? Well- no, obviously, no, you just came back. Yeah, Karen wasn’t at her apartment when I arrived. When she didn’t answer my calls or show up I began to assume the same thing had happened to her.”

Mr. Nelson nodded as he was answered, eyes shining.

“No-”

“No, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Matt. Listen to me. It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you or I could have done. I’m okay now.”

“Matt, don’t beat yourself up over this.” He reached over and clasped his hand on his friend’s shoulder, calming his agitated friend. Even from behind, Clint could tell that Murdock had begun to alarm. He looked primed to burst forth from his seat in anger at nothing he could fix.

“It’s okay now. You are back, aren’t you? It’s a miracle. We just have to wait for Karen to show up. Everything’s going to be fixed now, Matt. I promise. Besides, I had Marci. I wasn’t all alone if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The mood shifted from a despaired resignation to an almost elation with this new topic. Mr. Neslon’s face slipped into a wild grin.

“You wouldn’t believe- Matt- we’re married! I have a wife now! Who would have thought! I can’t believe I get to tell you this; she proposed to me almost four years ago and I swear every morning I wake up worried that it was all a dream. I need to introduce you to her! Formally! And- oh shit. I just realized that we have to go tell her Father about our marriage- fuck- he’s going to be so pissed that he missed it. I’m a dead man, Matthew. He’s going to skin me alive. Back after five years to find out your only child is married and has a child- imagine!”

Clint could guess Matthew’s following comment. "You have a child?" was a good candidate. "Imagine disappearing for five years and finding out that you missed out on giving the best man speech at your best friend’s wedding!" was another.

“You need to meet him! He is the smartest child I have ever met. I swear- why are kids so intelligent these days? He knows twice as much as I knew at his age. He’s quite possibly the greatest kid it the whole world.”

“Ainsley.” A smile, this time one less like the grins you shoot after accomplishing an impossible feat and more like the warm haze of the afternoon, filled with softspoken, undeniable love.

“Yes, he’s-” This was getting a little too intimate for Clint’s liking. He turned away, ashamed. Nelson was a nice man who didn’t deserve to have his life pried into. Clint knew enough. He had seen the man cry, seen the name of his child and spouse. As much as he wanted to take and take and take up all of the information, as much as he wanted to extract every last information from the world around him, he still had a conscience. Instead of drinking in the world and letting it lay waste to him he chose to sit quietly, hands in his lap, eyes lowered.

He maintained a cowed position until they were finished. He didn’t immediately notice them; it wasn’t until Murdock tapped his shoulder that he looked up. It had been quite a while. Clint’s legs were twitchy. The two friends stood before him with smiling faces, a permanent joke distributed between them.

It had been decided: Murdock still was to stay with the Avenger for the time being while he got back on his feet. He couldn’t stay with Nelson because of the lack of facilities and space and the kid. He couldn’t stay with anyone else because there wasn’t anyone else. Everyone had homework: keep an eye out for Karen Page, journalist extraordinaire, and Sister Maggie, nun with a mouth like molten steel.

“My walls are a little thin around the master bedroom, if you know what I mean,” Nelson joked garishly. “But really. Matt, I know you’d prefer your own house. A roommate might do you some good.”

If there was a secret meaning behind those words, he didn’t pry. Stability was key in assimilation after a life-changing event. Clint was going to provide that. No questions asked. Visit coming to a close, he bid farewell to the lawyer and secretary.

“After you, Mr. Murdock,” Clint said, stepping aside for the elevator door.

“Please, call me Matt,” he replied. He laced fingers over the archer’s bicep and motioned for him to guide the way with an angelic smile. 

Clint’s heart sang with joy.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No disrespect to Eddy out there. I appreciate your billboards. I thought it was funny. Don’t sue me.  
> -  
> Talk about busy. Also, I can’t believe I’m writing Foggy’s legal trouble with his adopted child’s real, newly unsnapped parents as a secondary side plot. Ambitious much? Hmph. Comment about it.


	3. It sure is sweaty under all this ego.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What I've been waiting for, at least. Clint begins marauding at night.

[CHAPTER 3]

And so life began.

Clint brought Matt (Matt!) to his house, set up his toiletries in the bathroom, and that was that. Dinner was crafted, a chicken with asparagus and Brussel sprouts, the product of a haphazard trip to the grocery store on the way and the very few recipes Clint knew without his New York Times subscription. Once the blind man had grasped the forks and knives in the cupboards underneath the kitchen sink he had become a member of the household. He had an air mattress, a toothbrush, and an approximation of the layout of the kitchen appliances: he was set for permanent residence.

The boundaries were laid out during the first beer.

Clint had not shared a house since Laura and the kids and Kate. He predicted himself to be a terrible roommate, not least because he was a vigilante moonlighting through the Big Apple who had yet to land a day job. He lived slovenly, picking himself up off the metro station floor day after day and seeping into every problem that arose. There were mountains and mountains of trouble, and he was the Monkey King sealed beneath. 

Most importantly he didn’t have his priorities straight. One would have thought he would have started with his identity as Hawkeye, but no. Like most men, Clint’s thoughts centered on his stomach, and his first concern was about food. He wanted to know immediately if there were any allergies. He didn’t think he could live without peanut butter.

“No,” Matt said, “but I would prefer if we retained a scarcity of particularly odorous foods in the house. I doubt you’ll be keeping any durian, but that is something I don’t want within a ten-mile radius of where I sleep.” The tone of the joke was strange, sincere, but Clint couldn’t help but laugh.

Matt smiled. “You might think that’s an exaggeration, but once the people downstairs bought a few from the Foreign Foods Mart and the entire building carried the smell for days. It was banned by the landlord after that.”

Matt liked foreign food and tended to eat on the healthier side. Clint tended to thrive on coffee and leftover pizza. Matt cooked his own meals, and Clint ordered in. The refrigerator was empty and the gas was cut to the oven. Crisis, however, was not long-lived: the archer, in a bid to shift his life around and make his presence more worthwhile on Earth, was trying to slip into a healthier lifestyle. He had also never craved durian.

They agreed that by the end of the month they would both be maintaining paying jobs. Well paying? No. But jobs nonetheless. Matt had to pay rent. He insisted on buying groceries and cooking at least twice a week to even out expenses. Though he couldn’t pay anything at the moment (in fact, he didn’t have a single penny to his name.) he had vowed to start paying by the next month.

The bathroom shelves were divided out, the cleanup schedule was allotted, and disability guidelines were set. Clint was to make sure that the TV had the volume on even when he watched it without hearing aids unless otherwise asked. He couldn’t move the furniture around or leave things in the walkway. A tour of the kitchen was organized so that Matt knew where everything was, and a spare key was handed to him.

In return, Matt had only to make sure that he turned at least one light on when he was in the house so Clint could know he was there. Clint warned him that without his hearing aids he would by virtually deaf. They wouldn’t be able to communicate after set curfew times. Matt asked how he best communicated, and how he could accommodate that.

“Mainly I sign,” Clint informed him. “Sorry. I can read lips, so it’s fine if you really need to say something. At a stretch, you can write it out for me, but,” he paused, not wanted to divulge how embarrassed he felt, when, “wait- I forgot that you can’t- can you?”

“I could, theoretically. I lost my eyesight when I was nine, so I learned the skills. Wouldn’t it be more efficient to talk in sign language? That way I could accommodate you instead of you being the one having to adapt.” Matt held his beer bottle in front of his and stared genuinely and openly into Clint’s eyes. At least, he would have been, had he been able to stare genuinely. Instead, he looked softly at the knife rack over the archer’s shoulder.

He was such an angel. Clint wondered how such a compassionate person could have fallen into his life. Here he was, a blind man, trying to communicate in a language that had to be seen, not heard. He was willing to sacrifice his own time and comfort for a man he had just met.

“We could, technically, if you wanted to learn. Wouldn’t it be hard for you? Aren’t you busy?”

“I don’t have a job right now and neither do you, so I’m sure we could find the time together.” He said. Clint wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or not. Were they to hang out like this as, like, friends? God, he hoped so.

He taught Matt his first few words that night over the dinner table. They held out their hands, arms outstretched, while Clint signed between the welcoming warmth of the lawyer’s palms. He taught him to fingerspell, the silent alphabet. He taught him _hello, thank you,_ and _please._ It wasn’t until that night when he realized he’d forgotten to talk about Hawkeye.

In the comfort of his bed, separated from his new roommate by just a paper door, he resolved to speak about it at first light. He was comfortable, after all. It could wait.

It was a week later when he finally remembered to do it.

.

Clint only remembered his duty to the American people when he wasn’t occupied with something more pressing. A new roommate was decidedly more pressing (and, might he add, quite literally; why take Viagra when instead you could live with the hottest man on Earth? Clint felt like a teenager again. It was disgusting). He hadn’t gone out for a week. In his defense, there hadn’t been much crime in the week he was out. But still. He had felt no motivation to costume up, no motivation to grab his bow, no motivation even to grab his new samurai swords and get back into taking down mafias.

Instead, he spent day after day just walking. He walked the entire neighborhood, stopping often at food carts for lunch, loitering on benches and windowshopping. During the Snap he had been so consumed with the Punisheresque mentality of revenge that he hadn’t stopped to enjoy the beautiful neighborhood around him. It was as if he were born again, gazing about the city with newly forged eyes. The trees were gorgeous this time of year. He sucked in every slap tag, every crack in the pavement, every threshold to the decrepit buildings. It was so different from Bed Stuy, and yet it hummed with the same life that his old territory had. It was alive with the dreams of thousands of people, good people.

He knew why so many people never left. It had been ravaged during the Snap but it had carried on. With each passing day since the Blip, Clint saw wider smiles, happier faces, exuberant greetings. There was a new elotes cart down the block. That bar, Josie’s, was it? It had opened its doors and extended its happy hour. He had already joined Matt and Foggy there for a drink on numerous occasions. Each one had been more raucous than the last.

Foggy had been overjoyed the first time they had gone. Josie had been snapped, and from the way Nelson dragged on it had surmounted to the end of the world. Josie was ‘the best person ever’ and her disappearance had lead to a severe drop in the quality of Hell’s Kitchen Booze. They had laughed for hours in the dingy pub. The drinks had been awful. Clint had loved it.

Clint’s expectations of being the awkward roommate had been alleviated near immediately. Foggy and Matt had both adopted him into their circle with less than a blink, embracing Clint as if their only tie to him wasn’t the fact that he was the owner of Matt’s former apartment. He rarely saw Matt during the day, but Matt made a point to always have breakfast prepared since he was the first up and to always inquire about dinner.

His eggs were heavenly. How a blind man could be so accurate in his cooking every morning, Clint had no idea, but the fact remained that Matt was so much better in the kitchen than Clint had ever been. It had only been a week and yet Clint was starting to feel a growing dependency on Murdock’s food. He was sure to suffer withdrawal if he ever moved away. Monday night, he had come home after hours of patroling 11th avenue to the vision of Matt standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and hair brushed back, making gourmet fajitas. It was a recipe he had picked up in law school, apparently, and the smell permeated the apartment for days, fueling an uncontrollable hunger within the archer that he could never seem to quell. 

He was encompassed by this insatiable urge to act. He felt like a bomb rigged to explode at a moment’s notice. All of these unfamiliar emotions were pushing him closer to erupting, and soon his death marches couldn’t skim the tension from his nerves. It was only a matter of time before he went out again.

That was the reason behind his current escape from the nighttime glow of the billboard outside. It was late and they had both turned in early, but Clint had done all but sleep. He had stared up at his ceiling, hands clenched, waiting an appropriate amount of time before rifling through his closet and unearthing his Hawkeye gear and all of his vigilante equipment. His crept out past Matt’s prone form, careful to be as quiet as he could feasibly assume, and slipped out the roof access exit. Out when he had shut the door did he allow himself to breathe. 

With a feral cry of freedom, he flung himself out into the city and began his hunt for crime.

Clint fought all night. The crisp city air clung to him like the blood on his knuckles. The violent solution to petty crime was a reprieve from his high strung nerves and he basked in the pain that came with every exertion. He hadn’t fought like this in quite some time, purposeless, reckless, crazed. By the time he staggered back into his apartment he was painted with bruises and high on adrenaline.

He wondered, sometimes, about the previous vigilante who had claimed Hell’s Kitchen. Most of the neighborhoods in the city had their own guardian; Brooklyn had Spiderman, MidTown had Jessica Jones, Haarlem had Luke Cage… What had happened to Daredevil? Clint had kept enough tabs on the Avengers during his stint as Ronan that he knew when Spiderman had been killed. He speculated about whether Daredevil had met the same fate. It seemed to be the most compelling rationale. The vigilante hadn’t been seen in five years, the suit itself for even longer. Unless the man behind the mask had sprung upon the opportunity to retire, he should have been taking to the streets by now.

Night after night, the hope of a sighting grew ever dimmer. Daredevil was dead. Clint grew more carefree in his outings, their frequency intermittent. Almost nightly he crept past the sleeping body of his roommate, and every morning he crept past again. Arrows had begun to migrate all across the house. It was a miracle that Matt had yet to say something, and yet Clint had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t being as covert as he thought. Matt knew, somehow, even though Clint kept his arrows in places Matt should never touch. It was strange to walk in and see the arrangement; the arrows were in plain view and yet unattainable. They graced the tops of doors, the backs of tall cabinets, on shelves dedicated solely to Clint’s belongings.

Did Matt know? Who’s to say. He hadn’t said anything and had already procured a stable income, so Clint felt it best to leave things be.

Two weeks later, at two in the morning, Clint was firing an arrow into a broken window. The man inside was a tracksuit. “Bro”, Clint could hear through the space between them. When Clint looked in, the package in the man’s hands had split over and out was sprawled hundreds of dollar bills.

“What the futz, Bro, not cool,” the man mumbled. He dropped everything and turned. A gun was already in his grip as he made eye contact with Clint. He snarled. “There is Bro. I kill you now.”

Clint didn’t drop everything, but he still turned. He sprinted down the road, bullets biting at his ankles, counting as he went. The handgun had resembled an Mk23. 10, 11, 12, 1 in the chamber, and suddenly Clint was ramming through a bolted side door for another way into the complex. Four men in the hallway turned in alarm, only to be met with four arrows to their sternums, all launched with one draw of his bow.

A smoke bomb arrow to the next room eliminated a significant portion of the gang. Tendrils seeped out of the door, reaching at his ankles. He shot arrows into the room at hazard before moving on, not daring to cloud his vision and diminish his performance. He kicked the next door, the target door, open with a loud clamor. Behind it a congregation of tracksuits sprang up; Clint had only enough time to raise his bow to his face before they came into contact, fists flying. He swung his bow, hitting a man upside the head with a satisfying crack, before dropping to a fighting stance and taking on the rest with his hands. 

A kick flew through the air. An arm blocked. A punch. A shout. A yelp of pain. Clint’s forearms stung with every hit he took and yet his own dealt twice the damage. His knuckles scrapped a Russian lip and pummeled into a stomach. A particularly daring man wrapped himself around the archer to bring him down and was met with the wall. Clint threw out his elbow into a ribcage and kneed a man between his legs when the attacker had gotten his fists at Clint’s throat.

The fight spilled back out into the hallway and out the door. They were fighting like cats, now. All dignity had been left where they had left their priest robes: Clint felt teeth rip into his bicep and he slammed his forehead into their nose, breaking it wonderfully. Bruises assaulted their bodies. Blood from lips and fingers and noses sprayed finely over everything. 

Clint was winning, he thought.

A silver-ringed finger connected with his temple, sending shocks of pain through his core.

Clint was not winning, he thought.

Three against one in close corners were not good odds, even for him, and he planted his feet to throw them off and disengage, struggling to run back and grab his bow and then sprint for it. That was the plan, at least, before he was flung into the wall by an unblocked hit. His vision clouded. Before his nose could be splintered, however, the man collapsed to the floor. A black figure stood behind him, his fists at the ready. Clint flinched, preparing himself for the worst, but the man turned away, taking out the remaining three men with relative ease. That was no easy feat: the tracksuits hit worse than New Year’s Eve hangovers and were expert collaborators when it can to gang jumping people. This new stranger came at them, fists flying, unfazed as if they were no worse than elementary school bullies.

Clint definitely did not want to be on the receiving end of that man’s punches, he thought. A size up of the man told him all he needed to know: he did not want to be on this man’s bad side. Sure, he could take him out with an arrow, no big, but a volatile man like this would be hardpressed to be hanging around areas where he could be shot at.

He was also hot as hell. This seemed to be a season filled with strangers that one-upped Clint at every turn. Matt had shown up, hot, successful, polite, intelligent, and now this man had burst into the scene: he was built like a panther, supple muscles flexing under his black sweater, every punch calculated and precise. This man was a whirlwind: he was violence and beauty and temptation unreigned.

“Who are you?” Clint croaked, his mouth still ripe with blood.

“What are you doing without your arrows, Hawkeye?” He replied with a grin.

Clint spit out over the bodies lying prone on the floor. So that’s the game they were playing? With a clear mouth, he answered. 

“Oh, you know, just getting beaten up.” He pushed off from where he had collapsed against the wall and mad his way down the hall. He was vaguely aware of the man in black behind him. Strewn across the floor, his arrows looked like a bitch to gather; he set to it, groaning as he bent down and jolted a bruised rib. 

“Thank you for having my back there.” Clint grunted. “I totally had it covered on my own, of course, but you know. Help is appreciated.” He totally hadn’t had it covered, but who would he be without an overconfident attitude?

“No problem,” the man said, as if he knew Clint totally hadn’t had it covered. “Who are these guys?” He asked.

Quiver in hand, Clint turned. “The guys you just flattened?”

“Yes.”

“They’re the Tracksuit Mafia. They’re affiliated with some high profile companies, right, they buy and sell entire blocks for huge turnouts. It’s just legal enough, just under the radar enough so that the police don’t do shit about it,” Clint stifled a moan when he bent down to grab his bow. Instead of bending at the waist, he gave in to a merciful squat.

“Anyways, what they’re doing sucks. They’re driving up gentrification and whatnot, kicking people out of their homes… and before you go and tell me that they are within their rights, I’ve seen them murder people. They murdered- well, they wanted my building a while back, and uh- yeah, you get the point.” Damn, did he really disclose that much? _You’ve never met this guy, Clint. Chill out on the personal stuff._

“I’ve been involved with people like that. I’m sorry for your losses.” The man said, leaning up against the door.

“Yeah, thanks,” Clint said.

“So why the Tracksuit Mafia? Is it because they are all wearing tracksuits?”

“How’d you know?” 

“Lucky guess,” the man grinned. “Before you go outside, though, I should warn you. There are five more coming up the street.”

“Futz, seriously?” Clint wasn’t sure if he had the strength to fight off more of them. He had had enough for the night. “Did you see them on your way here?”

“No, I can smell the factory their suits came from,” the man stated, deadpan.

They stared at each other, Clint laden with incredulous silence. _What was going through that guy's head?_ The silence stretched out for numerous seconds, before what had been said registered in the archer’s brain. The laugh started deep in his lungs before erupting uncontrollably. Clint had to brace himself against the wall to stop himself from tilting. The masked man grinned.

“You’re a strange man,” Clint gasped out. He straightened, wiping his hands down his front. He held an outstretched hand towards his new friend. “What’s your name, vigilante? Need a name to connect to a face.”

“I think the press has been calling me Daredevil? I’m not picky,” the man said. He met Clint’s handshake halfway, his grip firm and strong. His hand bristled with power and was rubbed rough with callouses.

“It’s nice to meet you, D. I see you’re a man who also keeps to a healthy sleep schedule.” Daredevil smiled again at that. “I’m Hawkeye. Why don’t you say we go kick those Bros asses together?”

They walked down the hallway and to the front door. Clint readied an arrow on the string of his bow. D opened the door with a resounding clamor, and they sprung out together, working in a strange harmony to take the men down. It definitely wasn’t Clint: Clint did his own thing, shooting people and flinging himself at people like usual, but the other vigilante seemed to adapt seamlessly to whatever Clint did. His spacial awareness was astounding, the stuff of legends. Every arrow that mistakenly came his way was ducked, every man behind him decked. Clint couldn’t believe that after so long Daredevil had finally appeared and that the vigilante, so famed for refusing to cooperate, was working with him. If he was confused by the relief he felt that the vigilante hadn’t met his fate and was still alive and kicking, well, he didn’t show it.

It took almost no time at all for the pair to find themselves the only ones left standing on the sidewalk. Both were panting. Clint risked a glance at the other man. Sweat shone from his skin under the streetlight and his costume stuck ever closer to his back. The sliver of his face that Clint was allowed to see had flushed a bright red. 

“You fight well,” Clint said. That was an understatement if there ever was one.

“Thanks,” the man said. “You are very skilled.”

“Thank you for helping me out with that,” Clint said. “Why are you helping me?” He asked.

“You’ve taken over my neighborhood, Hawkeye. You've done good. Why fight against that?” He replied. “You need help getting home?”

“No, I’ll walk. See you around.”

“You too.” Daredevil granted him a loose nod, before walking over to the fire escape that limply clung to the building and ascending. He climbed quickly, rapidly reaching the top and disappearing from view over the roof. 

If Clint took an abnormally long time getting home, the other vigilante didn’t have to know. 

He returned through the roof access around four, silently stumbling down the stairs so as not to disturb Matt. In the light of the billboard, Matt glowed almost red, softly asleep. Clint was filled with a nameless emotion as he gazed down at the beautiful form of his roommate, one that he quickly suppressed. Instead of bothering with a shower, Clint went straight to bed. In the few hours of sleep he managed to snag, he dreamt beautiful visions of quiet, masked men.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, I FINALLY READ THE HAWKEYE FRACTION RUN so now my knowledge spreads wide and far. Please discuss with me in the comments your favorite issues and scenes because none of my friends read marvel comics, and of those who do they all hate Hawkeye an unwarranted amount. I really liked the opening few panels in issue #21 (before you get Barney and Clint speaking) from an aesthetic standpoint, however, storyline-wise I obviously liked Kate’s first run in L.A. And Madripoor? Is literally Singapore? But with only Chinese guys? What is that about?
> 
> And, an update:  
> I thought I was a bad writer until I watched our school play. Keep that in mind, guys. There’s always someone worse.


	4. Cuban Sandwiches are a summer thing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smackdown time

[CHAPTER 4]

Matt Murdock had to be the most beautiful person Clint knew. It was lunchtime, and the roommates had met up to eat lunch down at one of the old-style New York Delis. The midday sunlight cast a warm glow onto Murdock’s face through the window. His face had reddened in the heat and he had removed his work jacket and placed it on the chair behind him. His sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, revealing his broad forearms. The man that sat across from Clint, laughing and careless and free, made Clint’s heart sing.

Two Cuban sandwiches sat between them, unwrapped on paper plates and half-eaten, next to mustard bottles and Splenda packets and a dingy tube of napkins. A fan clattered overhead, drowning out the noise of the voices in the crowded restaurant. Clint could just barely make out what Matt was saying, and the noise faded in and out. 

“You would never believe… back before… Foggy used to get into all sorts of trouble,” he was saying, eyes gleaming. Clint focused on his mouth, lips reading the gaps. “The one time when he brought the… and Mrs. Gardosa from across the street was so excited she…”

Clint could barely understand him, but he didn't ask him to repeat. He knew he'd hear the story sooner or later from Foggy. Even Mrs. Gardosa might tell him since he’d been running her groceries for her for extra cash. He was happy, which was what counted. Even the frustration at missing the tale couldn’t overwhelm him. Here, on his pseudo date with Matt, there weren’t any worries. They’ve been going out to lunch together for two weeks, now. It had been two weeks since Clint got a shift at the bodega nearby, two weeks of sweaty AC malfunctions and lost change and crumpled bills handed over for the strangest of things. Two weeks of gum sticks and Monster Energy transacted cross-counter has done nothing to alleviate his pride: he’d made eight new friends and a dozen new acquaintances, and he’d gotten to yell at the teens that loiter at his door on Tuesday afternoons twice.

He always ate lunch with Matt before the shift started. Today was sandwiches; yesterday, Indian. They meet up at Nelson’s law firm and walk to a new place. When finished, they split up. It was a routine that worked for both of them. Mondays and Wednesdays, Clint headed out to Avengers base to touch contacts with the rest of them. All other days? Down to the bodega he went. His coworkers, Darius and Mariana, were overjoyed by his schedule: they could both attend their classes at university while he worked, and both had Friday and Saturday nights off to do college-aged things. 

Their presence was enough to make Clint miss Kate something special. Their wry humor and ironic youth resonated in him. They always seemed to be more tired than he was, too, despite the ten-year advantage they had on him. They included him on their text chains and on their disses of the owner. Thrice now the buzzing of the group chain alerted criminals to Hawkeye’s hideout, but Clint didn’t really mind too much. It was a little extra work, but the shade was worth it.

“–I’m glad we were allowed to weigh in on her case or she might have lost it, you never know what might happen with some of these corrupt legal show hoops they put us through,” Matt said. 

“Do you want to go get dessert after this?” Clint interrupted.

Matt’s look of surprise shouldn’t have been as endearing as it was. He considered it, taking a bite of his sandwich as he did so. There were crumbs around his lips. Clint was a little awestruck by their vibrant color. 

“Sure,” Matt said, and soon enough they are rising and paying the bill and walking out into the stagnant Devil’s Kitchen air that Clint will never have enough of. It’s ice cream they’ve decided on, rich and sweet from the creamery down the street. 

Matt picked vanilla. Clint picked rainbow sherbet. They sat out on the sidewalk side by side, immersed in the atmosphere of the newly adjusted city. Clint watched a flock of pigeons creep ever closer, pecking at the concrete, and he wondered if Matt even knew that they were there. Their silent gaggle approached within leg distance, and he kicked at them to get them to disengage. A car honked loud enough for his aids to pick it up. He spotted a window across the street that was cracked open just a smidge.

“I really enjoy spending time with you,” Clint let out unpromptedly. 

“I can say the same,” Matt said. He smiled into his cone. There was a faint ring of ice cream on his lip line, and Clint wanted to lick it off.

“During the blip, even before, I didn’t really hang out with people all too often. I’ve never been the most… social in my circles. I was a bit worried about adjusting to a roommate like this, but it turns out it’s super easy being around you.”

“Were you expecting it to not be?”

Clint frowned. “No, no, that’s not it. Don’t lawyer me about this. It’s just: I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You wouldn’t have liked me before, I’m a completely different person.”

If Matt was confused about that, he didn’t say. Clint watched him unabashedly as he bit down, the muscles in his jaw flexing. Matt took a second to reflect on his answer: “I’m glad I know you, before or after. You’re one of the best things that’s come out of the Blip as it stands.”

Clint blushed a bit at that. 

When they parted for the day, more than their stomachs were full. There was something unspoken in the air between them, a sensation of an obstacle being tackled. Their relationship had crossed some intangible boundary and Clint felt on edge, like everything at once and nothing at all could happen. It was an exhilarating thought.

.

Hawkeye was punching things again. 

It was impossible for him to understand how he seemed to never use the arrows that were his trademark style. He was always in the wrong place, as if the people he beat up know to never let him gain the high ground. He rarely had time to string his bow before he was thrust into the action, fists flying. It was a testament to his new eating habits that he didn’t tire immediately. His fist connected with a nose connected with a larynx connected with a sternum. The last one made him pull back to shake out his hand. He broke at least one finger in the action.

The attacker pulled forward with a kick at Clint’s ribs. He dodged, stepping back to avoid the clip of the heel. The man snagged his hoodie with a clawed hand and pulled Hawkeye forward. Hawkeye grunted as they fell into each other. The man tried to wrap an arm around Clint’s neck and Clint flailed, catching him in the eye. A yelp rang through the air. Clint fell to the ground with a thud and used the position to his advantage. With a well-placed elbow, Hawkeye had the man falling to his knees. Hawkeye got a joint to the stomach for the strategy and he wheezed. They rolled out, springing up opposing each other. Hawkeye caught the shift of the stance and the flex of the fist as the attacker went in for a punch. 

Preemptively, Hawkeye kicked him in the balls.

The man, expectedly, crumpled. Clint stepped over and punched him across the face, once, twice, before the man fell to the floor unconscious. It’s New York, Clint thought, no one should have expected him to fight fair.

That’s how Daredevil found him, camped out on a roof, arrow notched, surrounded by three unconscious strangers. Clint almost missed his arrival. If it weren’t for the flicker of his shadow reflected on the wall opposite, he would have kept the other vigilante waiting for quite a while.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice rough from the recent fight. The man in black nodded. He stretched, then walked up to the wall to glance at what Clint was observing. 

“What’s for today?” he asked. 

The pair had met up a dozen times since the run-in with the Tracksuits back in May. They worked well with each other, like a smoothly oiled machine. Fighting side by side had built up a strong trust that had been fostered by their frequent midnight conversations. Daredevil only joined in on the action sometimes, always when Clint felt he needed it most, but his help was always indispensable. He was still hot. Clint was still head over heels.

“Gang hotspot. Ugly shit. Terrorizing the civilians.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

Clint paused, unsure if divulging information was prudent. He went ahead anyway. “Found intel that suggests they have links to someone I’m looking for.”

“Who?”

“Karen Page.” It couldn’t hurt to have a few extra eyes on the lookout, right? Clint was sure the two of them had been mixed up somehow at some point, what with the vigilante law the firm she had worked for had engaged in. She was a strong woman from the sound of it, smart, though she seemed to skate the grey area of safety. Close interactions with Frank Castle and a showdown with FBI agent Pointdexter, discovered through some serious spy work, had sent Clint looking through the shadier side of the city to find her. There was no way she hadn't yet been un-blipped; either she had returned and immediately fallen into trouble, or she'd been mixing with the wrong crowds for a while.

Daredevil stilled. 

He stalked closer to Clint, shoulders tense, mouth clenched. There was an intensity in the air, a deadly turmoil. Daredevil tilted his head to the side, his glare still focused on Clint. Clint squinted to make out his expression in the dark light. 

“What do you want with her?” He barked. His voice was deeper than before; Clint’s hearing aids picked up the low tenor better than its usual murmur so the question resonated loudly within his skull.

Clint shifted to look him better in the face. Unease settles in his stance. “Why do you want to know?”

“She’s–” He paused. “I need to know if she’s in any danger.”

“I don’t mean her any. She’s a… friend.”

The man in black frowned at that.

“Well, she’s a friend of a friend, and she’s missing,” Clint amended. 

When he received no answer, he continued. “Today’s escapade is to break in, find Emmanuel, extort him for information on her whereabouts, and break up the meeting. If all goes smoothly, it should be fairly in and out. Ha. In and out,” he chuckled, “like that burger place Kate’s always raving about. You and I should go some time. Is there even a location in New York? Anyway. They should break away as soon as they’re compromised.”

The other nodded. They waited together, watching the stream of people walk into the building, shifty and questionable. They took the first groan of the men prone on the roof beside them as their cue to go. Clint notched two arrows onto his bow and pulled back the string with practiced ease. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Daredevil turn away and head for the stairwell, and the disappointment that welled up inside him was readily suppressed. The two guards at the door, tall, rugged bouncers, settled into position, and Clint released. 

Each arrow found their mark, protruding obscenely from the throats of their victims. The men collapsed.

Clint turned to follow his partner, only to find his path blocked. 

“Did you kill them?” Daredevil asked, a mutinous anger underlaid in his tone.

“We don’t have much time,” Clint replied, aware of the constraints of their ticking clock. 

“Did you kill them?” Daredevil asked again, this time shoving Clint’s shoulder back.

“Hey hey hey, chillax, man. Yeah, I did. They’d have raised the alarm at the wrong time. Sorry if that offends your sensibilities.”

Daredevil let out a frustrated grimace. “Fine. Don’t kill anyone else,” he said, the hostility rolling off of him in waves. 

Clint didn’t dignify him with an answer. They moved quickly, churning down the stairwell and streaking across the street. The door took just three sharp slams from the other man’s elbow before it broke away and opened. They slipped in, tentative and aware. It was just another of their dances: one looking left, the other looking right, the hazy lights flickered above them as they dispatched each adversary they stumbled across.

Daredevil always took the lead. He seemed to know when each man would round the corner, winding up for a punch before recognition had even appeared on their face. The corridors they worked in were thin and narrow and the walls peeled yellow. Each fight between Daredevil and the newest opponent sent shock waves along the ceiling and it rained dust. The violence was marvelous and horrifying. It seemed that the thin trust built up between them had been shaken, as if black didn’t trust Clint to not use lethal force, and as such he took on everyone who came their way.

They prowled onwards. Clint took in the surroundings as they passed. Newspaper clippings were plastered on the walls, contentious headlines shouting at them. The doors they would pass were painted faded green, olive, almost. It was only a matter of time before they stumbled into the main group. No one had even sounded an alarm.

The gathering was held in a warehouse-type cell, with bare pipes and implements and support beams tangled on the ceiling. The group was clustered around a poker table, cleared of everything but a few knives and a stack of papers. There was a poker chip in the corner, Clint noticed, red striped on the side. The men were arranged like a Renaissance painting in the faint light, sprawled on boxes and bent over each other serenely. 

As soon as they were spotted, the crowd scattered. Clint caught sight of their target, the cross around his neck gleaming. 

“There! With the red shirt!” Clint shouted, pointing. Daredevil spared a quick glance at Clint but made little effort to move after the culprit, and Clint feared the man was getting away. 

As the man slipped out through a door on the other side, Clint recognized that action had to be immediate. He leaped over the table, grabbing one of the knives by the handle as he went, and flung it handle first into the empty space through the door frame. The knife ricocheted out of view. Clint was already chasing after it, sliding over the threshold and pushing away from the wall. 

Clint knew he never missed, but the evidence still shocked him. There, beyond the corridor, Emmanuel had been pinned into the wall by the knife, his jersey snagged just an inch from his shoulder. He was pulling on it, almost free, so Clint slammed his forearm into the man’s throat and grabbed the right hand, which was attempting to wrench the knife from the plaster.

“Hey Manny, got a few questions for you,” Clint said, voice light. Emmanuel’s eyes widened, wild and angry at the same time, his black hair plastered to his forehead. The man spluttered at the press of the arm against his larynx. With a defiant sneer, he spat directly into Clint’s face.

Clint stood his ground. The saliva slid down his cheek but he merely narrowed his eyes and leaned closer. “I get that you don’t like party crashers, man. Message received. I’ve already been baptized, you don’t need to do it again.”

This was the moment when Daredevil showed up. His arrival was preceded by an astounding throw of a man into the wall just feet from where they were preoccupied. Clint watched with wide eyes as the man slumped to the floor. Daredevil rounded the corner, wiping his mouth with the pack of a bound hand, and it came away with blood.

“Took you long enough,” Clint said, his heart stuttering at the sight. “Thought we weren’t killing anybody tonight.”

The man in black jerked his head and paused as if listening. His tongue wet his bottom lip and he cracked his knuckles. “He’s alive. Why haven’t you started questioning yet?”

“Stop being impatient, man, I’m winding up to it.” He turned to face Emmanuel again. He had gone pale with fear. “Okay, bro, we’re gonna do this the easy way. How about you tell about the whereabouts of this real pretty lady I’m searching for. Ms. Page, if I’m correct.”

At Emmanuel’s carefully blank face and kicking legs, Clint frowned. “Aw, no. You don’t recognize her? Secretary and investigative journalist? Real sweetheart? All bite?”

“No. I have not heard of her,” He spat out. 

“Are you sure?”

“Never. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Never? I don’t think that makes-” Emmanuel cut him off by punching him in the stomach with his free arm. Clint folded, his lungs out of breath, but managed to keep his grip, wrestling down the writhing man. 

Daredevil growled, stepped forward. He reached over Clint’s shoulder to grab the man’s head and slammed him against the wall. “Answer his question. Do you, or do you not know where Karen Page is.”

Something about being threatened by a masked vigilante must have triggered something in the man. He shuddered, face pale as the wall behind him, and went limp. Clint felt bad for him. For his sake, he hoped he spoke earlier rather than later. 

Emmanuel stuttered. “I- I don’t think that- that- that I have the information you w-want. I don’t know where she is. I’ve heard of- heard of her, but she’s not with us. There’s a connection to a- a d-drug ring, which I’m not at all connected to, I’m clean, and these guys they- sometimes they take out whi- whistle b- blowers and the like, and I’ve heard her name through the grape- grapevine. It’s not- it’s not us I swear, I had nothing to do with it trust me, I had nothing to do with it.”

Damn. Clint wished he was threatening enough to get an answer so quickly.

“What’s the name of the group? Any contacts you can give us?” Clint asked.

“Fuck you,” he gasped out, “I ain’t snitching any more than that.”

Daredevil didn’t wait. He punched him, straight against his jaw, so hard that you could see his head snap back and the skin of his cheeks waver. The speed of the pullback was impressive; the man in black was back in his fighting stance in mere seconds, as if he had never stuck. The man hit let of a pained groan, mouth turning a shade of burning red. 

Daredevil growled. “Will that make you reconsider?” He said, threateningly.

Emmanuel cleared his throat. The speed at which he sold out his colleague was frankly impressive, but Clint wasn’t complaining. Any factor for making a job speed up was a good one in his book. Snitches may get stitches, but not from Clint. 

“I don’t know th-th-their name but they work the corner at 43rd and 11th near the theater. It’s not- it’s not pretty, the work they do, some- some- some of it is barely ev-even covered up. You’ve got this guy, Honoré, he- he orchestrates some of the worst ones, and uh, this g-guy Martens usually takes the fall for the jobs. You’re going to want to seek out, to seek out Xochimitl-”

“Who?” Clint asked.

“Xochimitl-”

“What kind of a name is that?”

“I don’t-” He stuttered. 

Daredevil cut him off. “Hawkeye, we don’t have time for this.”

“What do you mean we don’t have time?” Clint exclaimed. “Besides, this is very important, we can’t miss out on the name.”

The man in the mask exhaled sharply, as if frustrated. “They’ve called up backup. Since it’s just us, they aren’t breaking up the meeting and are planning on taking us out. They should arrive in a few minutes.”

“Oh? Uh,” Clint replied, intelligently. This was a big screw up in his plan. Things were not running smoothly. He hoped that Emmanuel would start speaking again to speed them up so they could get out of there. He wondered how Daredevil even knew all of that, given they’d been standing together the whole time. Had there been a call on a speaker system? Had someone shouted and gave the order? It was possible Clint’s hearing aids were shorting out, but he hoped that was not the case. A way to get them out of there was now the top priority. 

“Well, that’s not good,” was all that came out of Clint’s mouth. “Fine, we’ll adapt. Emmanuel, keep spilling.”

Emmanuel, who had resumed struggling, halted his movements. Upon realizing he wouldn’t be making it out of their grip any time soon, he resumed speaking, this time faster, as if he was scared to be caught speaking with them.

“Xochimitl will know where he is, she’s often in the, ah, the falafel place down south, that’s where her, her boyfriend works. Honoré should know more. Will you let me go?”

“Which falafel place,” Clint asked.

“The one with the, the big yellow sign on 46th.”

“Thank you for your help, then,” Clint told him. 

As soon as Clint released pressure, the man ripped himself out of their grip and tore off in a desperate flight. He flew down the way they were going like a madman, limbs flailing. Clint looked at Daredevil, took in his tense stance and primed fists, and assumed by the press of his lips together that the reinforcements were already here. Clint sighed, shifting his bow further up his back, and took a knife from its sheath on his leg. 

There was an unspoken knowledge passed between them. They were going to have to fight their way out of this one. 

There was another T intersection at the end of the wall, peeling paint like the skin of the onion, and a faint shadow flickered through it, letting him know of the presence of someone lying in wait. He motioned behind him to his partner to demonstrate this, and before Daredevil had the chance to crush past him he was throwing the knife in a brilliant curved arch. The sound of metal piercing flesh was accompanied by the view of the man’s head as it hit the floor beyond the corner. 

Clint’s partner gave him a brief nod in acknowledgment. That was the most praise he got before Daredevil was off sprinting. He said something, but Clint couldn’t make it out clearly. They raced together, both turning left, and set upon two men running in the opposite direction. Daredevil landed a hit on one, before turning towards the other and engaging in a fight. He fought like a boxer and martial artist all at once. Not glorious, not particularly graceful, but brutal and violent. He took blows to the face, torso, and legs but never dropped, whittling steadfastly away at his opponent’s endurance. 

Clint went for the first one and ended up being pummeled before he even got a hit in. He stepped back, stepped back again, dancing away from each fist lobbed toward him. He was running out of breath. He saw an opening and took it, bringing his elbow into the opponent’s ribcage and kneeing him in the face when he keeled over. There was blood on the floor, not his. He whipped an arrow out of his quiver, nevermind that his bow wasn’t in hand, and gripped in tightly, held between them as insurance of defense.

He hesitated, waiting for the man to attempt to get up before they went at it again. The man chose instead to remain on his knees. As he watched him, he heard a single cry. Daredevil shouted, and when Clint glanced up at him, he could just barely make out the words.

“Behind you!” Daredevil shouted, his voice muffled.

Clint turned and stared down the gun leveled at his chest.

.

Clint didn’t hear the bullet as it left the barrel of the gun. He never does. He saw the gun’s owner jerk back with the recoil and felt the shot slam into his side. At first, it didn't hurt. At first, he didn’t bleed. His arteries were shocked at the opening, too timid to venture out, and he stood there, wavering for a moment, as if nothing had happened. It was a moment of peace. He could just make out the face of the shooter, young and scared. For a heartbeat he thought of nothing, only the gleam of the metal. He wavered. A cry pieced the air, _his cry,_ and the wound began to leak, coating his side with blood.

“Fuck,” he managed to gasp out. He stumbled, arrow dropped and hand at his abdomen. The pain was overwhelming. His eyes glossed over as he fell into the wall beside him. “Shit. Why’d you have to– have to do that?”

The pain in his side seared into him like a hot poker. His vision tunneled. In front of him, the man who shot him trembled, arm and armament extended. He prepared for another shot. Hawkeye was down: aiming and firing were secondary and so simple. Clint tried to lunge forward to disarm him but found that he could no longer sustain his weight. He crumpled. 

He was faintly aware of the arrival of his partner, heavy boots coming within inches of the fingers Clint watched spasming on the floor. He was kneeling in a pool of blood now. He felt rather than saw the hit land above him, sensed the man’s brutal assault as fist after first collided with his skull. The gun clattered to the ground by Clint’s hand. Clint whined, but its audibility came into question when paired with the slumping of the gang member down the hall.

“You– didn’t– kill him–” Clint whispered, eyes squeezed shut to avoid the pain. 

Daredevil picked him up gently from his spot on the floor. He placed him seated against the doorway, brought the gun to Clint’s hand, and coiled his fingers around the trigger. Something was pressed against his side to stem the bleeding.

“No, I didn’t,” Daredevil said, voice clearer than it’s usual deep growl. It reminded Clint of someone, but he couldn’t place who. He didn't dwell on it, distracted as he was by the sensation of a ruptured frame. Pain blossomed from his wound like a drum, spasming across his torso. One of Daredevil’s hands pressed down firmly near his appendix. The other came up to his cheek and he leaned into it blearily. “Stay here. Let me take care of the rest of them. Don’t bleed out while I’m gone.”

He stood, and took off running. There was a crash, like the sound of a transformer bursting, loud enough for Clint to pick it up. Hawkeye’s vision went dark, but whether it was because the lights went out or he’d fallen unconscious, he wouldn’t be able to tell. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was initially going to have Matt's reveal, and their get-together, and some other spoiler stuff, and then the plot got in the way and I also got bored with romance because romance and kissing are disgusting. 
> 
> Now that I think about it, I'm in the wrong business.
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> Hope you like this procrastinated mess. I've never written fight scenes before but they're fun so I must indulge. Kudos and comments will keep me writing this and posting this because as much as I love dumpster fire men I will get distracted.


End file.
